Dissecting Nescience
by Scaggles
Summary: To finish the case Myra Castellanos started, Detective Sebastian Castellanos goes undercover at the Beacon Mental Hospital under the guise of having trauma. Of course he gets himself into hell. AU; Eventual Ruvik/Sebastian, gore, mind-screwiness
1. Prologue

Story is that Krimson City's name came from some uncreative founder who apparently was dazzled by how intense the sunset's red light stretched from the horizon. Thought that leaving it as simply "Crimson City" didn't quite capture the enchantment so he replaced the first letter for another.

A century and the Industrial Revolution later, there's an ever-increasing grey smog that hangs over the city like a choking blanket. Tourists are justified in wondering if the name "Krimson" came from the enormous amounts of bloodshed in the town rather than the now faded sun.

Every day there's at least two fires happening in the west side, a shooting at the south, and the occasional armed robbery of a rich college student a street away from her school campus. Sirens bounce off the skyscrapers, echoing, multiplying – an auditory tumor that doesn't pass and go as much as increases and decreases in size. The air is saturated with sewer stench and cigarette smoke on every block, and the ground groans every time the subway charges like an angry rat in a tight pipe. The city is a fat, tired man with a thousand problems and little to no treatment for his shitty circulation.

And Detective Sebastian Castellanos lives in the heart of it.

His insurance is going to last him twenty-one days maximum. If it gets serious, Sebastian will make it longer. Either way the single room apartment won't be missed.

He's told to pack clothing, toiletries, and any other essentials. He can bring a few personal items if he likes.

So he shuffles through the back of his closet, pushing away the hung up coats and uniforms, and pulls out a stale cardboard box with a partially crumpled duct tape hanging on a side. A few of Myra's clothes, packed tightly over Lily's old stuffed bunny with a baby blue sock for a ear and a photo album – not much inside given the size of the box.

Sebastian takes the photo album and pushes the box back inside the closet. Steps over his small suitcase and brings it to his too large, king sized bed where a small scissor and a manila folder lie.

His phone vibrates with a familiar caller ID on his pillow.

Putting it on speaker, Sebastian waits for the other man to speak, his callused hands cutting, folding and pressing Myra's reports that he reprinted out earlier in size font 7 on crappy thin paper.

There's a start then a pause, and finally a resigned sigh like minimum wage.

Finally it all comes in a rushed tidal wave. "Seb, I read it all. This is too big. Oath of Honor be damned - this is recklessly stupid and you're going to get yourself killed. If you're not killed and they find out, they'll keep you there. And if you get out, the KCPD won't take you back in. I don't see any good endings."

Sebastian snorts humorlessly. "Thanks for the support, partner. So I take it you're not going to visit me."

Joseph passes over the sarcasm. "They're going to notice. Myra was too close and Lily died. Then she got closer and she's _gone_. You go in and they'll suspect you of following her steps."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I'm emphasizing that this is a bad plan and you should reconsider. You don't know what they're hiding down there."

"And I'm going to find out. The least I can do is finish what she started. I have a feeling that even if I don't go prancing around in their radar like a clown they'll eventually drag me into this and slap a missing poster under my name. These guys are paranoid sons of bitches."

"So now you're a profiler?" comes a half-hearted mocking reply.

"Joseph, let's cut the bullshit. Are you going to visit me or not?"

Sebastian hears a distant crash outside on the streets and a man screaming profanities, but it's so, so quiet in the room.

"I'll…I'll visit you. I can't guarantee that I'll always cover for you, but I'll do what I can. Tell me what you want done."

"That's what I want to hear. Investigate the backgrounds of the doctors and the staff members, especially the ones who've been there the longest. Someone here has to be the in-between."

"Got it. Good night and good luck Seb."

"Good night."

Sebastian spends the rest of the night pressing the rest of Myra's notes on the back of memories sharp as scalpels in the album as Krimson City moans and cries all around him.

His head thuds, low and steady.


	2. Chapter 1

It began when a handful of patients from the locked ward disappeared. No one outside of the hospital would ever notice, less alone knew they existed; in fact, the scandal would have never surfaced if it weren't for Mr. McKarrow, a persistent father who insisted to see his violent, substance-dependent bipolar daughter and refused to take no for an answer.

"_Wanted to hear her voice, just a minute…but they said she wasn't there and it didn't make any sense_," he was reported saying on the Krimson Post.

The hospital was right. There were no records of Ashley McKarrow ever being admitted.

Naturally Mr. McKarrow demanded the Missing Persons Bureau to make a thorough investigation into the matter and it turned out Ashley McKarrow was not the only patient that had vanished. Oswald McBane, Jennifer Fieldmeyer, Agnes Murray, Gregory Musich – the KCPD suspects there were more missing patients who couldn't be crosschecked due to lack of information.

Krimson City already had a fuckton of crime, some of which too big that needed the police's attention. The department wanted to leave "The Beacon Scandal" in the back of the office. Cite "caseload pressure" and "lack of resources", and mark it inactive. Wait for the spiders to lay eggs on top of the names. So when days later the hospital's Chief of Staff pointed at some former doctor, the KCPD jumped at it. After all when when the missing patients share the following traits – estranged or unavailable family members, run-out insurances, and missing admitted files – nobody wants to deal with it.

Leave it to Myra to brush off the dust and take a crack at it, to climb in the chasm so deep that she can't find her way out. Now it has all spiraled into the convoluted mess that's in Sebastian's small suitcase.

It sits by his legs against the black leather seats of the cab. The driver is silent, focusing on the road and Sebastian isn't up for any conversation. It's a drizzly, grey Friday morning, the kind that makes people want to stay in and the reason Sebastian doesn't bother to walk even though the hospital is twenty minutes north from his place. He watches the tired corporate workers and penny-saving students stream through the sidewalks at every intersection, forcing rusty cogs to turn at the end of the week.

The cab goes uphill through the iron wrought gates, arms wide open as if they were waiting for Sebastian forever. The driver stops around the curb and nods the man off, eyes shifting uncomfortably between the detective and the hospital as he ticks off the bills with chubby fingers. He drives off without another word.

The detective stands where he is for a few seconds, taking in the aged bricks, the columns, the windows – it's one thing looking at the hospital from afar, but up close…

Sebastian frowns. _It's easy to disappear in a place this large._

Marching up the stairs, he pushes the dark wooden doors and enters.

It's a spacious lobby that's more appropriate for a hotel rather than a psych ward though the distant scent of chemicals help distinguish it. Marble tiles, white pillars and various potted plants sitting like guards by every pairs of doors inside, the lobby has a feeling of grandeur. Two sets of comfortable green couches and plush chairs sit in two circles around a table stand, flanking the side of the ringed greenery in the center. Wooden benches with various patients flipping through books and magazines, some outfitted in hospital clothing and others in everyday dress wear. Everyone wears slippers. The beige walls are decorated with black and white photographs of natural and urban landscapes, calming and familiar.

This place is a world of its own – he can barely hear the city. Sebastian wants to say he's impressed but he can't help the unease. The quiet tends to get unnatural.

No one pays attention to the detective as he strides up to the front desk. The receptionist is shifting through papers with one hand, her other hand twirling a lock of blonde hair over her ear idly. When Sebastian's shadow goes over her, she looks up, wordlessly takes a peak around and spots Sebastian's suitcase next to him.

"So you must be Mr. Castellanos? You're on time."

As Sebastian hands her the required papers and ID, she's already on the phone, summoning two nurses. One takes Sebastian's suitcase – "After we check if they meet the hospital's rules, we'll return them to your new room," he says - while the other smiles at the detective politely.

"Please follow me."

* * *

><p>Sebastian is used to being in a minimal room with a bolted door and brick walls. A line of harsh lights in a row that splits the ceiling, casting shadows down on a single table and two chairs. A speaker, microphone, and a camera. One window that dominates one wall.<p>

Here there's a modern lampstand standing in the corner whose metal neck is bent to light the square room almost evenly, shying a bit away from the oaken desk near the back to mostly accentuate the two white couch chairs in the center, a matching ottoman in between like a buffer. The office breathes comfortable.

Sebastian is not comfortable. He's spent the past decade being in the interrogator position, but now he feels like the interrogatee in a room where a fucking stuffed elephant is sitting on top of a bookshelf against one side of a wall.

It's awfully pathetic. Even Doctor Rachel Monroe isn't quite the picture definition of threatening - a small, older woman with short curly brown hair, deer eyes, and a patient smile, seated with a clipboard over crossed legs and so far only asked how Sebastian is, how's he feeling, etc. Standard procedure.

"Sebastian, did you want to be admitted or was it by suggestion?"

The questions is a finger poking in the waters not to see if anything hops as much as hoping for something to bob when the ripples hit, but Sebastian can only open his mouth and close it, tasting the flavor and still not sure what to make out of it.

"Both."

"Then why did you want to be here?"

_Doesn't beat around the bush does she._

"I…"

He stops. Doesn't know what's the right thing to say. While the detective is definitely no doctor he knows that even the supposedly anonymous drug surveys passed out at schools have barcodes beneath unique code numbers printed on both the multiple choice sheets and the front page where the student's name is written on.

Confidentiality is a pretty flower dropped when there's a spider.

_I can't trust her. I don't know enough._

"Take your time, Sebastian."

Sebastian looks down.

"I don't feel like I'm on stable ground."

"Is that all?"

"And…I need answers why."

"Sebastian, I'll need more to start with. You're not in any other psychiatric office. You're in Beacon, a psychiatric hospital."

Doctor Monroe turns over the clipboard to Sebastian.

"As per required of being admitted, you sent the hospital your medical history and a check-off list of reasons you came here for. We will eventually address each one during your stay. I didn't read them yet so I won't start judging you from the step off." The older woman smiles with good humor. "But for our first session I hope you can tell me some of those reasons yourself. That way we can have a proper psych eval to know which direction to go on from here."

The detective exhales a bit forcefully through his nose, elbow on the chair's arm and hand covering his chin. Well there's that.

_Myra knew how to be quiet. Good for investigating, but it did her wrong in the end._

If Sebastian isn't in their radar already, he will be. There's no point in trying to keep it low. He has to be loud.

_If a man with nothing gets shot where no one else is around and nobody filed him missing to the bureau, he doesn't exist._

"I'm not used to talking about my problems, doctor. It's counterproductive, especially being here, I know."

"It's alright Sebastian. Was there no one you confided in before you came?"

"More like I shouldn't. I'm an officer. We keep our issues to ourselves."

Dr. Monroe nods, waiting.

"It's…I guess some of my worst problems stem from my time being in the field."

_All of my problems actually._

"And these problems are…?"

"Can't sleep easily." Which is true. "I wasn't a light sleeper when I was at the academy, but the job changed that."

That's why he forced himself to move into that shitty apartment. Face it and get over it.

"Nightmares?"

Sebastian pauses. "Sometimes."

At Dr. Monroe's questioning look, he mutters," A lot." _Make noise, damn it, make noise_. "Sometimes it's about some of the cases I've been in. Other times it's fire. I used to drink to go to sleep."

"How much would you usually drink in a week back then?"

The lady's just doing her job. She doesn't even sound obnoxious. But Sebastian can't help the irritation rise in his throat, the pull in his fingers and he clenches and unclenches them. Lose some energy.

"Every night. It caused my wife to leave me."

It doesn't matter that he knows the truth, that she loved him, but no shit he didn't make it any easier for Myra and Sebastian feels the cement block bulking like a cancer in his chest.

"After that I stopped. Only drank a few times the past year. May have smoked more packs than before, but it was something."

But he still keeps a hip flask. Some things don't change.

Tucking a brown curl behind her ear, Dr. Monroe nods, scribbling in her clipboard. "How do you feel towards your job, Sebastian?"

The detective breathes. "It's tough work. Krimson's got enough crime for two cities."

"But how do you _feel _towards it? Do you feel accomplished?"

Sebastian frowns. "I used to during my first years."

"But now?"

_If the man screams loud enough, he makes echoes. Then someone might check._

"It's something to do."

* * *

><p>Sebastian leaves Dr. Monroe's office with more speed than he should. He walks passed the elevator and takes the stairs but it's not enough to shake off the agitation. So he rushes pass the main lobby, strides down the long hallways until he reaches his room and closes the door behind him. The doors in the regular ward don't have locks, but at least he doesn't have a roommate. He's lucky and he's alone, thank fucking god he's alone.<p>

Sits on the bed and breathes through his nose, his hands in his hair and pulling it back.

Alright. Five things that he learned so far:

He forgot belts aren't allowed and the nurses took it. That and his shoelaces Sebastian doesn't want to think how a patient can do anything with shoelaces, but he's grateful that all of his other items – given in paper brown bags – are returned back to his new room. Inevitably he's going to be wearing the hospital slippers but he'll live.

Half of the staff are gone during the weekends. Whether it's a board meeting or they're having a barbeque party, Sebastian doesn't care right now. He's just happy that's it's Friday and it matters for once.

Everything's routine; times wake-ups, meals and medications. There are more than couple hours free between meals, which he can use to study his surroundings more thoroughly than the superficial tour the nurse gave him.

Apparently he has signs of PTSD. Sebastian isn't surprised that he _does _have something with all the shit that's happened so far. The good doctor says she's not sure of how bad it is yet, but it's within the moderate-severe range and they'll explore it more on Monday. During the meantime –

The locked ward happens to be in the old ward aka the building with the eponymous beacon on the other side of the outside court. There aren't any other easily accessible leads besides there. Sebastian isn't sure if he's allowed there, less alone able to explore it more thoroughly. Good thing he happens to have PTSD – maybe he can make it worse and wind up there himself if he has to.

It's still noon, and his routine as a "patient" won't formally begin until Monday. He's got the rest of today to cover as much ground as possible and give further instructions to Joseph tomorrow.

But for now he wants to revel in the small space in the room, the natural silence in solitude under the blue shadows. He wants the noise in his head to stop.

_Shut up. Shut up._


	3. Chapter 2

He sleeps at the corner room in the patient ward left of the main lobby.

Or he's supposed to be still sleeping. He's wearing a white-collar shirt and a pair of loose slacks instead of pajamas. The desk lamp is turned on and his bed is already done.

Electronic devices including his cell phone are banned and the one window here is locked tight, a print of a landscape still in place of the real scenery. Sebastian guesses it's already the next day but he can't tell if the sun even rose yet.

He needs to tell Joseph to get him a clock since the room lacks one and the hospital won't allow watches. The detective can understand the reason behind the restrictions, but honestly what the fuck would a patient do with a watch? Swallow it? Break it in half and slice his wrists with the sharpened edges?

Shit, he's getting creative. He must have been up too long.

The stool is missing a foot tip and it creaks when the detective shifts his weight. The desk before him is covered with small pieces of evidence pasted on the back of photos, Sebastian trailing a slow finger from the name "Mobius" in one of Myra's interviews to the Krimson Post column covering the Beacon Scandal before it "closed."

Missing patients. Claims of behavioral engineering experiments from not-so-missing patients. Rumors of a clinically insane former doctor and a missing nurse.

There isn't enough.

Sebastian flips a photo so it faces back to him. A little girl with full brown eyes and hair. Her back is to the camera but her small face is smiling back over a small shoulder, a perfect capturing of a perfect moment - Lily with her nose tipped with ice cream and it was Juanita who took it, her babysitter because her fucking father and mother were so busy with work and if he can just go back and spend every single second before the goddamn fire –

Sebastian claps a hand over his eyes to feel his face freeze.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fucking FUCK.

_Shut up. _

There's a reason he kept the album in the box.

* * *

><p>Besides a couple offices the cafeteria and the recreational room are in the second floor. Phone calls are kept at ten minutes per patient in order for everyone to have his or her turn but under the watch of a staff member. Visitors can come during waking hours but are restricted to be in the common rooms.<p>

A staff man knocks on the door and "wakes" Sebastian up at 7 am. The detective eats two slices of toast alone at a back table, draining a cup of coffee so fast he feels it as a hot line down to his belly. He leaves Joseph a minute long voice message about getting him a clock and a book before the younger man visits him tonight.

"Don't get me anything 'inappropriate.' The hospital has a lot of restrictions."

The nurse who was supervising him suggests going to one of the optional therapy group sessions at the third floor. He didn't.

Instead he went to the courtyard for some fresh air and gave the locked ward's entrance door a shake. No budging.

Now the detective is sitting on one of the various couches in the mostly empty recreational room, eyes closed and head tilted back.

_The locked ward. No shit detective, it's called the "locked" ward for a reason._

The buildings were built in 1866, nearly a century and a half year old, but that doesn't necessarily mean the hospital was established then. After all, who the fuck would put a lighthouse in a hospital? And to dedicate so many buildings around a beacon…there has to be more to the area. Passages, different entrances. Something.

_Myra kept the blueprints in her folder. She was looking for something in them_.

However the blueprints don't have anything written on them, only that the old ward was circled. It's the only lead Sebastian has so far into finding more into this tangled shit, but there has to be something he can start doing now.

_Reconnaissance._

Sebastian pushes himself from the couch, gives the guard who's idly flipping through a magazine book by the door a nod, and leaves.

At the third floor there's multiple rooms dedicating to different group therapies, the therapy types falling into two major categories: time-limited and topic-focused.

Sebastian's new so if he enters a time-limited room no one should mind. But it seems that the time-limited tend to have stricter sub-categories; the board list tacked between the elevators indicate that unless Sebastian _really_ wants to discus his anxiety disorder, bipolar, or schizophrenia – basically none of the subjects at hand are relevant.

The topic-focused it is then.

Walking down the hall, Sebastian chooses a random door, quietly turning the knob to let the stream of conversation flow out.

"- and so I told her I had severe anxiety, like, my hands were shaking while I was trying to eat, but then she was focusing onto it like it's going to help me and I was all 'no, please, stop, seriously' but I couldn't say it 'cause I got really nervous, which made it worse, and then I started crying in the middle of Panera and it was really, really bad. I mean, I know he was trying to help, but how can he not see that I was trying like a thousand percent _not _to break down in public? Really?"

"That sucks. My college roommate tried to avoid me and made it awkward living in the dorms. It was to the point that I had to fake a breakdown to scare her off so I can get a new one. It's hilarious in retrospect though."

"B-b-buh-huh-b-bi-bitch."

"I'm going to assume you mean my roommate because she definitely was."

"Hey new guy, don't be shy – get your butt in here!"

_Crap_.

It's a room of six people – three females and three males - all sitting in foldable metal chairs in a semi-circle, a few of the chairs out without their owners. The girl who called Sebastian the "new guy" stands up to walk over to him while the others nod politely at their seats, an older man with graying hair smiling warmly.

She's a tall pale girl, can pass off being a teen but is probably in her early twenties, fitted in a plain black t-shirt and a pair of grey jeans over hospital slippers. Short blonde hair and slightly red-rimmed green eyes.

"Hey I'm Emi Bungato, and welcome to the least boring group in the hospital."

"Optimism," responds an older woman with wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders. After she gently pushes her red-rimmed glasses higher on her nose bridge, she crosses her arms over crossed legs in a flower print dress. "You're supposed to say 'the most fun.'"

"Like I can autocorrect everything I say, thanks Kat."

Emi then points to herself. "Substance-dependent with type two bipolar, but I'm mostly here for the first one. Had one bad trip and freaked my mom enough that she decided I should be here even though I shouldn't. You?"

A man with dark eyes and black hair curling towards the back with prominent folds on his cheeks coughs for attention. "Don't push him." His dark hands are busy, twisting and turning, a quick pause allowed Sebastian to see it's a Rubik's Cube, partially completed. The detective never liked those complicated pieces of shit. "What if he doesn't want to say anything?"

Before Sebastian could speak, another girl, a bit shorter and her hospital clothing wrapping more snugly around her waist, stands up. Her long dark hair is almost puffy, bouncing like it has a life of its own as she walks up behind Emi, exasperated. She tugs on Emi's sleeve.

"Shut up Brook."

_She didn't say anything_, thinks Sebastian, annoyed. The girl, "Brook," rolls her eyes and tugs harder.

Yet the blonde insists, "You can at least say your name y'know."

He has to give her credit. The last time Sebastian remembered restraining the urge to roll his eyes was months ago when Joseph worried about his daughter's increasingly growing obsession over Korean boy groups – mostly because of the boy group aspect.

_What have I got myself into?_

"Emi," the graying haired man interrupts with a light sigh. "At least let the man sit."

And so the detective occupies the empty chair between the older man with broad shoulders but with a little potbelly, and the younger man with the Rubik's cube.

The woman name Kat begins, "Okay let's make a round of introductions. You know the drill: telling your reason to be at the hospital is optional, but you must mention your triggers. I'm Katelyn Lindhout, Kat for short. I was a Kindergarten teacher at Park Ridge Elementary School until I started to show symptoms of having schizophrenia."

"You know who I am," Emi says next. She directs her thumb at the quieter girl sitting next to her. "She's Brook Yamana. She _never _shuts up."

Brook punches quickly and lightly at the taller girl's shoulder, like a small snake, and Emi sniggers.

"A-A-Anxuh-ty…" Taking a deep breath, Brook continues a bit calmly. "S-spuh-speech impe-di-diment. Low esss-essteeeem th-then here…" She relaxes, even perking a bit. It seems getting that much out without getting overly agitated takes an effort. Sebastian can respect that.

"I'm Dylan Acosta," the man sitting at the detective's left mutters, never once looking up from his colorful puzzle. "I'm definitely saner than Emi, but ask me about my ex and I won't be."

"Sam Fatherweil," a blonde boy announces with a nasal tinge. "I tend to ramble a bit so tell me to shut up if I annoy you. Don't worry about triggering me since I'll leave if I feel like I can't handle it."

"You'll never annoy us," the older man at Sebastian's right says with a comforting smile. He's clearly the grandfather of the group though the detective pegs him to be in his early to mid fifties. "The name's Arnold Brown. Here for PTSD but my therapy's working. I still get the night spooks, but I haven't had an episode for some time now. In my case, trying to trigger me is good, though don't push it when I say I can't bend no more."

When all six pairs of eyes lay on him Sebastian realizes he had been too silent, caught off-guard of the extreme contrast between the overall quiet ward and the onslaught of chatter all wrapped right in this box room. Only in a mental asylum would he ever be with the eclectic company he is with now. "Sebastian Castellanos. Arrived here yesterday."

Kat smiles. "Nice to meet you Sebastian. It hasn't been long since you arrived. If you have any questions related to the ward, ask away."

How convenient.

The detective asks, "Do you know why half of the staff's gone? I thought the hospital would be a bit more secure."

"It's the weekend," Sam answers breathily, a sigh in his words. "From Monday to Friday it's meeting the psychiatrist and the social worker and having a tech everywhere to supervise you and give you points when you're doing good, warning you that you're going to stay longer if you're doing bad, like when it seems you're not trying 'get out into the real world.' The weekend is when we get a break and they get a break, and when they're going through so many of us they need to have that break – but if some patient goes wild, at least the ward's got the code team to sedate them and they'll give their doctor a ring about it."

It's…reasonable. Sebastian can't tell if there's anything behind that or if it's really what it is.

"Now I've got a question," Emi bounces after Sam finishes. "So Sebastian, what you got?"

"What?"

"Y'know, what you're in the funny farm for."

"Optional," the former teacher repeats. "Sorry, Emi is like a tiny dog. Whenever she sees a new person, she starts yapping at them nonstop."

_I can see that_.

Now it's Emi's turn to be exasperated. "I don't about you but _I_ went through every single book in the hospital except the dictionary and watched the Karate Kid, like, three times? Four? I'm allowed to have _some _entertainment that's not waiting for someone at the locked ward to flip their shit."

And there it is, the sparkle of gold in the river. Sebastian didn't need to ask or do anything at all.

"O-other pi-pi-hee -ple's puh-puh-prah-problems a-aren't your f-f-f-fu-fun."

The taller girl pulls the brunette's head into a playful headlock, cackling and rapidly switching arms whenever the shorter girl makes motions of biting them. "Don't guilt trip me Brook."

"No physical contact," Kat says automatically as if she's reading the rules right out of her hand out loud. Emi ignores it.

"Does it get bad at the locked ward?" Sebastian says a bit too quickly, not wanting to lose the chance when it's there. Then he turns to Kat who seems to be the one in charge of the group. "If that's fine to ask."

Kat shrugs with a carefree smile, an elegant finger pointing up to the camera at a corner. "The camera is here just in case someone starts having an episode, but there isn't a real staff member guiding the conversation unlike the other rooms. We're very laid-back so if there's anything you want to talk about go ahead. Just as long it doesn't make someone else uncomfortable."

Quieter compare to Emi and Brook's antics by him, Sam adds," We were talking about our college days earlier but because you're new you can go ahead…unless you don't want to which is fine, but you were asking about the locked ward right?"

The detective nods his head slowly and that's when Emi lets go of Brook, the blonde's attention shifting back to Sebastian with a smiling vengeance. "Only the patients who have it _bad _wind up there. If I get bored to the point I want to shoot my own skull – wait, sorry, you got any suicide triggers? None? Okay cool, just needed to check – right, when I get super bored I stand out in the courtyard and wait for some of the patients to start screaming. It sucks what they're going through, but – come on Brook, you gotta admit, the guy who thought the doctors were going to experiment him because of a government conspiracy was pret-ty funny."

Oh the irony. If only Sebastian had his hip flask because he would definitely drink to that.

"Do you know what happens in there?"

"Di-diff-dif-diffuh – "

"Different," Emi finishes for Brook. As if to translate for the clueless detective, the blonde continues," What she means is that the ward and the old ward got two completely different systems going on. Even the staffs are different except for some guys who have to go back and forth like the Chief of Staff y'know?"

"Why do you want to know, Sebastian?" Dylan joins, for once his attention away from the cube. Almost accusatory.

_Back off kid._

The detective narrows his eyes. "I've heard that over the years a lot of patients have been admitted, but only a handful leave. I'm wondering if I will ever get that bad that I'll have to go there"

"Don't worry about it," Emi waves the shallow concern off carelessly. "Like I said, you have to have it really bad to be transferred there. Like you hurt other people, or you hurt yourself, or just can't seem to function without help in general. That's why they don't leave. They shouldn't."

"Sometimes they transfer people for the stupidest reasons," Dylan scoffs. "People who don't belong there."

_What?_

"Oh yeah? Like who?"

"Ivan."

"Seriously, don't tell me you believe in that whole cult crap – "

"You didn't hear half of the things he said!" The man retorts fervently, eyes bright and voice defensive. "He had all the pictures, all this data – "

With large, watery eyes, Sam rushes around the circle to leave the room, Sebastian bewildered as he watches the younger man's back disappear behind the closing door. Andrew curses under his breath, leaving the room presumably to follow after Sam while Kat takes off her glasses to rub her nose bridge.

Sebastian sits still, watching Emi and Dylan calmly as their argument escalate.

"- were his roommate. Get over it Dylan. Of course you're going to think he's right if you share the same freaking room for that long!"

"Ivan was weird but he wasn't insane!"

"Are you hearing yourself? We're in a freaking mental asylum! And if anyone needed to be in the old ward, it was him!"

"I swear to god, have you ever heard Andrew's story? It matches, it fucking matches!"  
>"Chill your tits Dylan!" Emi hisses, "Do you want security to come? Do you want us to lose points?!"<p>

"You knew he was a journalist! You didn't think he was on to something?!"

Everyone jumps, – a sound like lightning - Sebastian immediately turning to the source of the noise with a hand on a naked hip and sees Brook, lifting a red hand from the seat of her metal chair.

"Stop," she whispers, placing the bandage over the tension.

The heat bleeds out and the air scabs over. There's still thin blood pulsing, pushing beneath the boundaries of the suddenly cramped space as Emi's teeth worries her bottom lip and Dylan glares down at his puzzle resentfully, each sharp turn of the wrist like a slice.

As if it couldn't take it anymore, the speaker in the ceiling comes to life. Static spills out like ash before smoothing out to a soft voice.

"It is 12:30 pm, lunchtime. Everyone please come to the cafeteria. Thank you."


	4. Chapter 3

_That could have gone better._

Save for them two the hall is empty, the blank walls and fluorescent lights whitening Kat's already pale complexion as if trying to blend her with the asylum itself. If she wore the hospital clothing and the lights consistently blare on rather than its current flickering, Sebastian would have to look twice to notice her.

The former teacher crosses her arms in a way it looks like she's wrapping herself, closing in. "I'm sorry, it's not always like this."

Sebastian doesn't need it because he gets it. He's a man with his share of issues and this isn't a circus, these people don't need to prove anything to him, but Kat clearly wanted a good first impression. Her shoulders are closed curtains.

No drink and no smoke. Sebastian has nothing to keep his hands busy.

"I assume 'Ivan' is a sore topic?"

Kat looks as him, eyes clear like she expected it and looks away, contemplative. "It's the opposite. When Ivan was transferred, nobody addressed it."

"Was nobody supposed to?"

"No, it's just…It turned into an unspoken taboo of some sort. I was concerned for Dylan, but he…he didn't speak of Ivan and I didn't want to bring it up first. Then more than a week passed and it didn't seem relevant anymore. Which always seems to cause most problems, doesn't it?" She doesn't want an answer because she knows it. It's in her hands, gripping her elbows tight. "It must have been boiling for some time."

Sebastian isn't good with people. He used to be in the sense that he was more careful. Talking but not saying anything, all words that people want to hear, what he thought they wanted to hear because it's convenient. Petty pretentious pity crap because how the absolute fuck could he understand the barest surface of the girl who got raped, seeing her abuser in the silhouettes of her own furniture or the boy playing dead on the floor of a church shooting, eyes wide to the distance as if he's an actual corpse.

So he doesn't say anything right now. Still doesn't know the right words to say to comfort even though he's been to the same stop and saw the horizon collapse into a wasteland, a different train to get to the same place.

Fortunately he doesn't get a chance to. Kat turns red, flustered, like what she said was a mistake.

"Oh god, you're not my psychiatrist. I shouldn't be forcing my burdens onto you. What am I doing?"

She saves him the trouble by walking away to the opposite direction, her hospital slippers breezing over the tiles.

_Well there's that._

Sebastian stands alone with a security camera as his company – or not since there are people coming down the hall. This is a longer way but it still goes toward the cafeteria after –

Nope, he's wrong, just confused his shadow for a person with the light flickered.

He needs sleep damn it.

* * *

><p>What's done is done. What matters now is that Sebastian was able to glean more crucial information, more potential leads that hopefully turn out to be solid once he puts it under the magnifying glass. He needs to keep digging deeper.<p>

The detective arrives to the cafeteria in a hurry – to get a quick bite before the crow and to start searching for Arnold – but the rush was unneeded.

The line is short, the pasta and soup are steaming, and the tables are mostly empty though Sam and Arnold are already sitting in a corner, their table split between the pasty lights from the ceiling and the blue grey light from the tall, ornate windows occupying the wall next to them. Even though the windows have elongated prints of a park in autumn, the prints must be ancient, the sun faded the brilliant colors into a pasty, dusty palette that Krimson City's true colors seep through. Just the way it should be.

Sam isn't eating as much, slowly putting pieces of pasta into his mouth while Arnold is flipping through a newspaper, his plate empty save for sauce remnants, pushed to the side. Stable company.

"Mind if I sit here?" Sebastian asks when he comes closer to the two men.

Sam doesn't look up until the detective's shadow falls over him and the blond jumps, the blood rushing to his pale, freckled cheeks and he moans, the fork down in favor of covering his face with both hands.

"Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, it must have been so awkward – "

Sebastian cuts Sam off by laying his food tray a little louder. "It's fine, kid. A small fight like that is nothing."

He and Myra had worse.

That's when Arnold pats Sam's back, a bit harder than he should since the man almost had his face full of marinara sauce. "You said if you can't handle what's happening, you'd leave. If you stayed who knows what might else have happened? You could have had a breakdown. You did what you had to do."

"Yeah but – I, um." The younger man huffs finally, all nervous air. "I hate fights."

"I think this one's a good for the group," Arnold nods leaning back in his seat. "Now that the whole case with Ivan is out, we can go over it calmly next time and move on. Bottling it all up is never a good thing."

Now. When it's still relevant.

"Hey Brown, I'm a bit concerned," Sebastian begins casually as he takes a sip of the broccoli cheddar soup. "Something about this 'Ivan' being transferred even though he shouldn't have. If it's not too personal, can you tell me what he means by that?"

The addressed man hums in his coffee, brown liquid drips to his chin in his attempt to speak early.

"Ivan was a strange fellow," says Arnold as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "Had all these bizarre theories whirring in his head though he seemed well enough. Didn't even need to be in the ward the way he was behaving at first. Kat gets episodes and I get episodes. But Ivan? Never seen that man had an episode the whole time I knew him. Not even once."

Sebastian frowns. "Are you saying he was sane?"

"'Course not," Arnold snorts. "The techs say he was diagnosed with delusional disorder. Apparently if you had that you can fit in all right in the 'real world' unless it's so bad it disrupts your life."

Eyes focused to the grey windows, the older man sits back deeper in his seat, draining the last of his mug.

"In short, you could never tell what's going on with Ivan. The man claimed he was a freelance journalist and was investigating a big story. Said outright that he's in the hospital for one with a smile. You can't tell whether he was lying or being honest. Whichever one's true doesn't change that he's one crazy son of a gun."

Coincidences don't exist in investigations. There was someone before Sebastian and now he's in the locked ward. The implications are disturbing.

Trying not to let the dread show, Sebastian pierces his pasta but does it too hard, the fork clanging against the plate in a sharp sound that makes him wince.

_You're not an amateur, calm down Castellanos. _

"Acosta said something that caught my attention. He said that your story and Ivan's 'matches.' What did he mean by that?"

If Arnold didn't look perturbed before he is now. Within the span of seconds the lines of the man's face seem to have lengthened, the shadows wrapping around his eyes beneath his bony forehead deeper.

"Hey Sebastian, Arnold is…well, he's here for PTSD and the reason is what you're asking about…" Sam speaks up though it's quiet, nearly seamless with the background clatter of dishes and small conversations. "So if he doesn't want to talk it's not that he's ignoring you, it's most of, er, just y'know, he doesn't want to talk about it?"

"…Is this going to be war related?"

Because he won't be just fucked, he will be the needing-a-thousand-lives-to-see-the-end-of-this _fucked_ if this case stretches all the way to the goddamn military.

Arnold erupts in laughter, the older man bending over with a hand on the edge of the table for support.

"Y-you look like the entire city broke down, Sebastian! You think I'm a vet? Am one alright, but not from a war!"

As the chortles gradually quiet down, Arnold manages out, "I used to be an inspector for the KCPD. That's the kinda vet I was. I was fine right up till Lakeside Town and it went down from there."

A KCPD inspector with PTSD. A KCPD inspector with PTSD who happens to know what Sebastian needs to know. It's so astounding that Sebastian almost turned his head to inspect if there's a smartass bastard cracking up behind a hidden camera. There had been far too many moments when Sebastian feels he needs to drink out of irony.

_Wait a minute. _

"Are you talking about the Elk River murders?" Sebastian starts, brows rising. "From the nineties?"

"You know the case?"

"It was all over the news." That and there is no single cadet back at the academy who wouldn't know one of the extremely few cold cases involved serial murders from the city, sitting high in the list of the most puzzling that it was told repeatedly like an urban legend. Wide-eye recruits would claim they would be the one to rediscover a new lead, reactivate the case and find the culprit.

Undoubtedly Sebastian knows the case well. After all he was one of those obnoxiously naïve idiots who hoped to bring the murderer - who god knows could potentially be some old sick fuck died of age - to justice.

"Yeah, it was pretty infamous. A dozen mutilated bodies and not a single fucking lead," Arnold growls, and as if he noticed how his voice rumbled he clears his throat. "It's why I'm here. All those families back at that little village…it's always the small places. Big places like the city – crime there isn't new and seeing a body at some alley becomes normal especially when you're in the Homicides Unit. But Lakeside Town was different. Place was drowning in fear."

"It's so scary," Sam shivers. "My aunt lives there and I used to visit her during the summer sometimes and it's just so small and peaceful and I don't get why anyone would hurt such nice people."

Arnold waves it off. "All in the past now. Until Ivan got admitted that is."

Sebastian's eyes darken.

"Let me guess: Ivan's big story involved the murders."

"You got it. Ivan thought some cult was connected to the Elk River murders and said he was in the hospital to bring it to light. Wouldn't be surprised that his disorder worsened while he was admitted if he was believing his own doctor was out to get him."

Knitting his hands together, Sebastian brings them to his lips, pondering. "He got worse?"

"He didn't used to yell."

It was Sam this time. The blond is staring down at his cold, half eaten pasta, hands squirming around on his lap. "It's rare what he got, that delusional disorder and all, and the people here are good at what they do but Ivan was just so paranoid and then he started to say that the staff was out to get him so he started to do all kinds of weird stuff, like, Dylan said Ivan started to make notes and put them all over the room and then Ivan wouldn't go see his psychiatrist or the social workers or anyone who worked for the hospital and would disappear."

Arnold inhales harshly, solemnity returning like dry air to lungs. "Then one day he snapped right in the lobby. 'Code One, Code One!'" – here the old inspector raises his pitch – "He was screaming that everyone were monsters in human skins and he couldn't take it anymore, couldn't pretend to get along and ended up with a spasm on the floor, all twitchy and foamy in the mouth. Mighty disturbing I tell ya, but it's not new in this unit. Once in a while someone gets sedated. Just unfortunate it had to be one of ours."

_Well fan-fucking-tastic. _

The KCPD veteran tilts his head back in his seat, relaxed, the ceiling's white lights harshly chiseling his face. He almost looks two-dimensional. Unreal.

"Doesn't matter anymore. Poor bloke's in the locked ward now."

* * *

><p>Locked ward. Locked ward.<p>

It's looking down a manhole to the sewers: how to get down is obvious, where to go underground less so, and understanding what could be hiding in the labyrinth of pipes, creaking concrete and the murky waters a total enigma. It's Saturday, Sebastian has been here for only two days - _two _days – and he's starting to heavily consider going down that slippery slope, of charging on and never looking back no matter the consequences. He wants to know so bad.

Still he's not a reckless moron, Sebastian on the job long enough that listening to one's guts is only acceptable when there aren't any options, and he has plenty of options right now.

Sebastian sits in the common blind spot of the two security cameras in the lobby just in case. He doesn't know how much he waited as he rests on one of the plush green armchairs in the lobby, Beacon Mental Asylum's blueprint folded and kept neatly in the middle of an open magazine on his lap. There's faint thundering and the lights flicker occasionally, clearly a storm occurring outside. The wind paws on the walls, howling and snarling like wolves, and Sebastian is in a corner. After the fourth time of glancing the double doors opening, each time not his partner, Sebastian returns to brainstorming without distraction until the smell of rain assaults his nose.

"Sorry Seb, traffic."

The detective looks over his shoulder but Joseph is already rushing in front of the receptionist to sign in. The Japanese man's coat is dampened with rainwater, his boots leaving behind dirt traces in their wake. After a long time keeping his nose down, Sebastian realizes that Joseph is the only visitor this late an hour – making the older detective the only patient waiting in the main lobby. Apparently supervising two grown men is a simple enough job for a wearied nurse to handle.

"What time is it?" Sebastian asks when Joseph comes back to sit in an armchair across from him, coat draped over an arm and a plastic bag hanging over the other.

Smiling, the other man summons his wallet from a back pocket, rummaging between the collected receipts until he pulls out something round, a metallic shine - Sebastian smirks when he grabs the chainless pocket watch swiftly.

"Thanks partner."

It could have been a plastic digital watch or a shitty, tiny desk clock for that matter. Joseph knows Sebastian's fondness for the old fashioned.

Undoubtedly it'll be banned since it's metal but it's small, flat enough to be casually hidden anywhere on his being inconspicuously.

The detective clicks it open – 9:21 pm – and closes it just as fast, tucking it away in his pocket though he doubts the nurse behind the receptionist desk is actively watching them.

"You're in a hospital. You no longer have an active job and you have a night curfew. How is it that you look the same?" Joseph notes lightly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You look like you haven't had any proper sleep."

"I never sleep," Sebastian deadpans.

Chuckling, the Japanese Canadian gestures at the other detective's attire. "You don't even look like a patient."

"The hospital clothes aren't mandatory," Sebastian replies a tad wistful. He misses wearing his trench coat. It's sitting in his unit's closet, but it's pointless putting it on indoors.

Time to get some shit done. The older detective places the magazine on the table, twisting it around for Joseph to unfold the blueprints. Pretending to be mentally ill is worth all its trouble for exploring the asylum in-person.

"Look at the room connected to the postal room and the lines next to the patient wards." Sebastian places a finger at the aforementioned postal room's extended space beyond the small blank line that suggests a door. "These blueprints and the hospital's map don't match. The lines here imply that there are at least a couple floors beneath the hospital, all openly accessible at one point but now they're closed off."

Joseph doesn't move his head, simply looking over the black frames of his glasses to meet Sebastian's gaze. "You think you're going to find something down there? These blueprints seem to be old. It wouldn't surprise me if the hospital made multiple renovations. What's down there could be abandoned."

"Or another route to the locked ward."

"There's no other way?"

Sebastian scowls. "At each end of the patient wards is an elevator with the option to go lower but it's not for general access."

"So you beat up the guards while I steal the keys. Sounds like a plan."

It's said in smooth sarcasm, almost natural but Joseph is usually more serious, more impassioned with the task in hand, and it means that he's still reluctant despite his word, the other man's way of subtle ridicule that would piss off Sebastian by this point, even calling him out if they're in the workplace.

Sebastian doesn't say anything. Instead he considers it for a moment, approximately calculating the success rate analogous to the amount of sufficient knowledge he has of the hospital, the potential consequences and excuses of knocking out the security. Currently extremely low.

Only worth doing if Sebastian confirms that the guards' roles extend further from their responsibilities to the regular ward. Then he won't hold back.

_It's fine. Justified_.

Sharp eyes scanning the near desolate lobby, Joseph comments, "After reading the records, I was worried something would happen to you the minute you walked right in. Still am with some of the things I found."

That's when the younger detective hands over the plastic bag, raindrops still adamantly clinging to its wrinkly surface even though Joseph batters it gently a few times. "Here's your reading book."

Peering into the bag, Sebastian stops at the cover, grimacing.

"_Silence of the Lambs_. Really Joseph?"

"I chose it to test how strict the rules are here." The younger man flips out his personal notebook, the black-gloved fingers flipping through the flimsy thing paper. "I wrote something down just yesterday…'Krimson City Community – Mental Health Administrative Rule 3597: You have the right to watch TV, have a newspaper provided, buy magazines, and books of your own choice, unless limited by your plan of service or as generally restricted by program rules.' So far the hospital seems respectful to the patients' rights. It's no wonder you can barely find anything else on it besides the scandal."

Sebastian snorts. "You don't need to be concerned about my rights. The regular ward treats its patients well enough. If I go to the other ward where the extremes and the criminally insane are then it's going to matter."

A high pitch screeching bursts from the speakers like a microphone at the wrong angle and Sebastian flinches, hands shoot up to cover both hands though it passes quickly for the nurse. "Five minutes until visiting hours are over," the nurse calls from behind the desk without looking up once from her paperwork. Quickly after, a particular loud thunder crawls over the roof like a wave of fleeing, fat rats.

Joseph stands, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. "I know you want to get to the bottom of this, but take care of yourself. Sleep more."

"I don't have the time Joseph."

"I've read enough patients' testimonials to know that's a lie. You've got a watch now. You can manage better." Taking a final inspection of the hospital as far as he can see, Joseph nods, internally confirming. "In a place like this it's easy to lose time. Spare some for rest. Take advantage of not being on active duty when you have the chance."

Sebastian sighs, ruffling the back of his head. "You're optimistic. Thinking I'm returning after this."

They both know he's not referring to retirement.

His partner stills. Then he flares, sharp anger contained behind his lens. When he whispers it's dry flint stone. Cold, hard, ready to spark.

"I didn't want to report you to the IA."

Sebastian glares back. "But you did."

"You know why and I'll do it again if I have to. I'll cut it all short. Your life isn't worth this."

Bullshit. Sebastian doesn't have a proper life to trade. Not anymore.

He keeps it to himself as Joseph's back leaves behind the double doors – "See you next week, Seb" - _Silence of the Lambs_ gripped tight in callused hands.

Joseph's a good partner and Sebastian appreciates the younger detective's efforts, truly a man that Krimson City needs. Clever enough to not trip over his own feet during a crime scene, but compassionate enough to connect with victims more easily than most officers, maybe more so.

Thanks to this visit Sebastian now knows that Joseph will definitely not cover him. In fact, Joseph would pull Sebastian up one yard down the chasm because he'd mistake the darkness for depth and won't give a shit if he's wrong.

Detective Oda can no longer be involved into this. It'll end like it began: with the Castellanos.

* * *

><p>AN: The development is required for setting up the shitstorm that'll happen eventually. Thank you everyone for your kinds reviews and I hope you'll be patient with this story until the action begins.


	5. Chapter 4

It's a strange, small thing. An infant.

There are other creatures similar to infants: small and feeble, crawl with all their limbs like maggots. Runs on absolute instinct, to chase and consume, their reason to exist is to capture what it needs but doesn't have.

But this - this thing - is literally a newborn and unlike the others it didn't rise from those of the caves.

No. It's better to describe it as a fetus. Too new for even him to understand its purpose.

It fits in the palm of his hand, a size of a fist. Thin, spider webs of scraggly veins visible under nigh transparent flesh. Barely has a shape of anything, only human traces with how its form. It's majorly split into two major blobs with five small bumps on the surface of one. Warm. Overall it's in a shape of a soft, red hourglass with no sand.

There's a pin-sized orifice on one head and, as if a needle has pierced through it and dips out from another point, a string hangs from the torso. Long, thread-like, dangling down the side of his hand towards a direction of unknown location, the pulse liken to the gentle tapping of a cockroach's climbing foot.

It's another mistake. An unexpected factor in a myriad of careful calculations. He may have the greatest control of all, but every mind brings its share of influences and there's only so much of the unconsciousness he can manipulate.

He can keep it. Watch its progress. But something about it disquiets him and that's more than enough reason to dismiss it. Not worthy of thorough examination.

Coldly, the practiced hand squeezes the warm thing. It wheezes silently, a bubble popping, yet it doesn't struggle. Pathetically weak. When he opens his hand it's thick, red liquid. Something empties inside him like a removal of a prickling stone. The nagging fly, the niggling nuisance.

Then something different happens.

The blood starts crying. Wanting. Spills through his fingers like mercury to the immaculate, white tiles. In a speed of saliva on tilted surface, its amorphous form moves like a persistent bacterium.

It doesn't return to him. It refuses to obey and refuses to die.

Interesting.

* * *

><p>This time Sebastian takes up Joseph's advice.<p>

He still can't sleep.

The unit is already well heated, the low hum of the radiators with the occasional internal rattle guarding the ward's hallway slithering to ever crevice. Constantly stinking of medicine and something metallic with stale coffee, the room is as bad as everywhere else in the hospital. In the end all Sebastian does is mess up the sheets, the metal bars buttressing the mattress squeaking under his moving weight like a cramped prison cell.

"Fuck it," he says and returns to the desk, turning the lamp on. The chainless pocket watch says only an hour and a half passed after midnight and he withholds a groan.

He doesn't know why he's not even allowed to rest – he's fucking exhausted and the increased excitement that tends to happen when he stays up too late has faded. His body is a piece of shit that won't rest so he might as well go over Joseph's results.

The detective flips open the book, peeling the soft pages with a thumb.

By the end of the harvesting Sebastian has accumulated around twenty pieces of ripped, folded paper, at least half hidden behind the cover flaps, and a cardboard Hello Kitty bookmark – must have been Joseph's daughter's.

It looks like a stupid joke, but Joseph wouldn't put it there unless he had a good reason. The detective studies the bookmark, gives it a squeeze and understands immediately. There's a slit on one end and Sebastian pushes the sides for it to force it open, greeted with even more notes fitted inside like stuffing.

All of which just in case the nurse checking the incoming items was even the slightest bit of extra careful.

Damn. If Joseph were a criminal he'd be one of those genius, paranoid sons of bitches who'd probably succeed in giving the police a good running.

The papers contain backgrounds of the current staff, backgrounds of some of the notable former staff, and then the turnout rates of the security guards accompanied with a couple minimalized screenshots of a career forum post of men retelling their experiences at Beacon.

They don't say anything about the hospital that stands out. Some of them talk about a patient needing to get sedated now and then because they "freak the shit out lol," but otherwise the job is like any other night watch duty. "bring entertaniment but hide the porn on sundays. the boss doc checks to see if ur doing ur job but dats it."

Basically the regular ward's security doesn't include cameras into the locked ward, which indicate either a separate security for the locked ward or none.

The information is relieving.

Speaking of "boss doc…"

The name Marcelo Jimenez is familiar; chief of the hospital, was in charge when the scandal occurred. Claimed that the situation of the missing patients was due to misfiling then changed his words later, saying outright it was a former doctor responsible for the patients who must be at fault. Case closed.

If there is any sketchy suspect involved with Mobius, it has to be him. Compare to any of the current staff members, Marcelo has been here the longest.

And for the former staff members including the missing – they've got a few years to their names but Sebastian doesn't see anything that grabs him: Randall Williams, Paul Cena, Tatiana Gutierrez, Benjamin K. Alwitz, Rachel Monroe –

Startled, Sebastian looks again, and sighs, slapping his forehead for confusing his own psych's name from another list of names.

He should probably take some sleeping pills here while he has the chance. As a detective he needs his senses to be on top and he's useless if he screws himself over the fundamental levels.

He needs rest, he needs to calm down, slow down, but there's a sense of urgency he can't quite place that he needs to go faster. It's the strongest impulse beating behind a plastic mask. Something about all this isn't going to last long and he needs to _go_.

Is he getting restless? Is the paranoia getting to him? How can he know for sure the regular ward isn't so entirely innocuous?

_No. No no no, that's too far of a jump. Breathe in, breathe out. _

But he has to go. Right now the timing's right. He's been here long enough to know how it all works and short enough that if anyone catches him they can't say he's doing it on purpose.

_Friday and Saturday. Sunday has barely started. It's been only two goddamn days._

And yet he learned so much it feels like he's been here for fucking weeks.

Whatever's the case, the guards will be more attentive once the sun rises. The doctor is coming to see them.

_Then the next few days._

In which he'll be seeing the physician and the social worker, the psychiatric technician and the groups according to his diagnosis. With a busier schedule involving more people, he can't be confident that he'll have the time to find a way to the locked ward. Will the next weekend be like this?

"This is crazy," Sebastian grumbles under his breath.

But the more he thinks over this the more it's becoming a good idea. He doesn't have to go all the way. This doesn't have to be the endgame – he can just poke things around a bit to see how far he can go and how much more he can go. He won't know unless he tries.

But just in case it _is _endgame…

Pushing back his seat, the detective swirls around and bends over to reach under his bed, pulling out his small suitcase. Opening it up, he quickly rummages through it and pulls out a familiar piece of clothing like an old friend.

Sebastian leaves the unit with Myra's trench coat, feeling as if he's wearing his own skin again.

* * *

><p>It's too late for security to use the microphone. If they see anything through the cameras, they're either going to call a night watchman nearby or come out of the office to confront it themselves.<p>

Ears out for the smallest noise, Sebastian makes his way to the main lobby and lies behind the receptionist desk, peering from the side in case the security room's door swings open. When nothing happens in five minutes, he approached the door slowly, attempting to peek through the metal fenced window and the door vent unsuccessfully. But there's light, which means someone could be inside and he better not risk it yet.

Sebastian slowly makes his way to the other side of the lobby where a couple wheelchairs sit against a wall. Lifting it slightly in case the wheels squeak, Sebastian brings it to the door of the right patient ward, unfolding it with a scowl.

Here goes nothing.

Quickly opening the door, Sebastian shoves the chair, the force almost tilting it too forward, but it bounces back down, swiveling and crashing against the windowed wall with a resounding echo.

As the sound dies, Sebastian ducks low as he rushes back to the receptionist desk like a fort, holding his breath. There's no way that will be missed.

He can hear a few doors from the right ward opening, all distant, sleepy mumbling, and frowns when the doors close shut, silence returning almost just as quickly.

Where's the security? The night watchmen?

_If they're sleeping on the job, I swear to god…_

One way to find out.

With bated breath, the detective flattens his back against the wall by the security room door's hinge, scoots a bit farther in case he'll be hit, and knocks lightly on the door.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Mildly bewildered, Sebastian boldly grabs the handle, pushes and, to his surprise, the door opens to an empty room.

A small desk and a lonely metal folded chair. Sixteen camera screens showing angles of the cafeteria, the courtyard, the hallways of the second floor and the third floor. The four bigger ones below the sixteen are focused upon the left and right regular ward - both of which facing towards the direction of the elevators - the main lobby, and outside in front of the building.

No cameras of the locked ward and no one except Sebastian inside.

The door to the postal room is open though, the detective coming close enough to take a swift scan of the room. Tall, metal racks of yellow packages in rows, not a soul inside either. On the opposite side at the far left is a metal-gated door, presumably connected to the outside to receive the mail from the back. A rusting lock lays on the ground next to the open door.

Considering there's one chair here, perhaps there's only one man watching the cameras and now he's temporarily outside. Incredibly fortunate timing that Sebastian can't believe it.

His mind is reeling, there's so many ways this can go terribly wrong but his legs are already taking him to the door and he's going down the stairs, the end of every five steps below him engulfed in a sinking darkness. Autopilot, Sebastian continues with a steady hand against the cool, brick wall, occasionally waving his fingers when he touches something damp. Barely looks over his shoulder to see how far he's gone. It's getting chillier and he's grateful that he has his trench coat on.

These stairs are too deep. The postal room back at the KCPD has only a door and a hallway away from the outside. Sebastian is going slow, careful to not trip into the blackness, heavy-lidded eyes barely adapting to the lack of light but even he knows it shouldn't take this long to hit floor and that alone screams sketchiness.

No normally functioning postal room would need a long ass set of stairs going below ground to get a bunch of mail from the backdoor. It's so inefficient it's absolute bullshit.

"Shit!" Sebastian cries out inadvertently, hand over his mouth as soon as the sound leaves when he steps on the floor with overexerted force. His foot is in his knee, and Sebastian curses himself for not paying attention. There's no fucking excuse for his amateur crap – if he could run on black coffee and three hours a sleep during a bad week at work, he can go through this.

As he shakes off his leg Sebastian blinks, blinks a couple times more, eyes still not registering the change in light in his surroundings. At least he can see his hand in front of his face but this is going to be _hard_.

He pauses. There's a low hum in the air sounding akin to electricity lines. In fact if he studies the smell beyond the powering dusty musk there's something like chemicals, maybe medicine, still too subtle to confirm. Still if there's running electricity all the way down here…

_There has to be a switch somewhere._

Roaming hands against the wall, Sebastian walks sideways, fingers dipping into the miniscule grooves between grainy bricks. They scramble when they touch something rubber and long, trailing higher against the wall – wires!

Then he trips.

It's something thin and sharp and it blocks his ankle first before clutching it like a vice as he falls forward. Sebastian's eyes going wide for the first time all night.

First there's light. Overwhelming light, sharp as knives stabbing into his eyes.

A sound that he doesn't hear at first because it's all around him, so damn fucking loud that only a milliseconds later he recognizes it but doesn't believe it - an explosion.

Sebastian Castellanos doesn't remember hitting the floor before he shuts down. Only sheering heat and pain, immediately fading into nothingness.


End file.
